


The Midnight Train, Going Anywhere

by mossy_kit



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Gen, Pre-Season 1, and do a little trespassing as a treat :), look I just think Jenkins should be friends with the early talkers, sunken halifax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mossy_kit/pseuds/mossy_kit
Summary: Jenkins Good arrives in Halifax and lets the currents carry them where they may. And if that ends up taking them to a strange, abandoned blaseball field, well, that certainly is an adventure, isn't it?
Relationships: Jenkins Good & Kennedy Alstott & Trevino Merritt
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	The Midnight Train, Going Anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> *holds up Jenkins* this blaseball player can fit so many good vibes in them
> 
> anyway this has been sitting in my folder for like a month so I'm just gonna post it! 
> 
> title is from "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey specifically because Jenkins absolutely sings it in the shower constantly
> 
> thanks for reading!

The first thing Jenkins Good did after stepping off the train and onto the platform was to stop for a moment, close their eyes, and inhale a lungful of fresh, salty air. The second thing was to get nearly knocked over by someone in much more of a hurry than they were, but honestly at this point, nothing could dampen their mood.

Here they were, a brand-new city laid out before them like a book. They had seen towers in Toronto and museums in Montreal, on the way, and that had been incredible. But there was something about Halifax that felt right, like they were meant to be here. The fact that they knew exactly nothing about the city didn’t matter – they were going to find out.

Halifax, as it turned out, was very welcoming.

It had these playful currents that sort of just… directed you to where you wanted to go. Less, Jenkins supposed, where they wanted to go, and more where the current felt like taking them, but it wasn’t like they had any other plans anyway. Plus, the flow seemed to know where all the good spots were, and Google was being completely unhelpful, and a local at a pizza place they’d gone to the first night they’d arrived had laughed at them when they asked why, so it seemed like this was just how things were around here.

Jenkins spent days and days just following the current’s tug, wandering up and down the streets and letting it show them around their new city. The first morning, it took them to a coffee place, not that far from their brand-new apartment. The next day, a lighthouse, way out by the water, with a view at the top that felt almost like a revelation, and a little donair place around dinnertime, where they had a long conversation with a total stranger about how weird Halifax was.

And then – a sunny Thursday morning, and Jenkins woke up on top of the world, ready for just about anything. After a quick detour for coffee, they followed the currents as they set out a new path, winding through the city streets and towards a district they hadn’t been to yet.

After nearly half an hour of twists and turns, they emerged onto a side street, and there it was.

Rising before them, like a juggernaut against the skyline, was the half-broken down remains of what used to be a grand stadium – maybe for flootball? Soaring windows, at least half of them broken or boarded over, were framed by tall brick and soaring buttresses. Seaweed stuck to the sides of the building, some of it crawling up the walls like vines, and there was temporary fencing in front of what looked like wide, open doorways that lead into the building. Above the doors, in peeling, yellowing paint that must have been sharp white once, was the name “Spittle Park.”

The current tugged insistently towards the dark hall, but Jenkins hesitated a moment.

“I don’t, uh,” they said, under their breath, to the water sloshing excitably around their calves. “Don’t think I’m allowed in there.”

The current pushed a bit more, and Jenkins stepped closer, checking over their shoulder to make sure no one else was around. They picked up the padlock, and it came open without any pressure – it seemed like it hadn’t been locked properly the last time it was shut. It would have been as easy as just slipping the lock off the chain to get in. And the whole stadium looked pretty thoroughly abandoned, like no one had been here in years, decades maybe.

In another life, they would never have even considered doing something so definitely illegal. It was stupid, and ill informed, and probably dangerous. But then again, so was quitting their job, selling their apartment, and crossing an entire country in a couple of weeks, so they checked the street one more time, then let themselves into the stadium.

It was dark inside the hallways, which twisted and turned in such a convoluted way it almost seemed like they were designed to confuse, and which definitely involved at least three sets of stairs that seemed to make no physical sense, but eventually Jenkins emerged out of a short tunnel into the fading evening light.

Below them, a huge ballpark, flooded maybe a couple of feet high, with the stands rising even higher around them. The bases were floating haphazardly across the surface of the mostly calm water, interspersed with random bits of debris and floating mats of plant material. The half-rotting frame of what seemed to have once been a giant, painted mouth, right near the corner where the home team would have entered, was listing dangerously towards the surface of the water below.

Jenkins picked their way down through the stands, hopped over the railing and down into the water below. They sort of splashed around for a bit, until they found an ancient looking blaseball floating there, started tossing it around in one hand and narrating into an invisible microphone with the other.

“And up next, we have Jenkins Good, star pitcher, up for Halifax!”

Their voice echoed through the cavernous space, reverberating in a way that almost gave it a life of its own, like there actually was some magic left in this strange old place.

“That’s right folks, we’ve seen a great season so far – but can they make this one? Big heavy hitter up against them tonight, folks!” they started narrating to themselves, exaggerated splortscaster voice and all. “Jen…kins! Jen…kins!” they added, imagining a massive crowd packing the stands, cheering their name. They could almost feel it, the stadium, alive again, could almost smell the greasy food and hear the crunch of peanuts. There was something warm about this place, something that made it feel less abandoned than just… resting, for a while, until everyone came back to wake it up again.

They closed their eyes, picturing the hours they’d dropped into their Wii Splorts game, what felt like a lifetime ago. Then they opened them, focused on the chain link fence behind home plate, with a lurch, let the blaseball fly. A moment later, it hit the metal, not too far off from where they’d aimed.

“You know, your form’s shit,” came a voice from the stands, and Jenkins whirled around instantly, nearly jumping out of their skin. “But you’ve got a good arm.”

Two figures were standing on one of the platforms. One of them was leaning casually on the railing, watching Jenkins with what looked like bemusement, and the other stood near them, shifting nervously.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” Jenkins said, holding their hands up to show they were empty, “I didn’t come to steal anything, I can leave if this is like… your territory, or something.”

“Nothing in here to steal,” the nervous-looking one said. “You’d be kinda dumb if that’s what you’re here for.”

“No, seriously though,” the other one said, pushing themselves off the railing and starting to descend the stairs. “I mean, look, Trev, that was a pretty good throw.”

Jenkins took a few tentative steps backwards.

“I can go, really,” they said.

“Have you ever played blaseball before?” said the one coming down the steps.

“Are you kidding?” the nervous looking one said, side eyeing both Jenkins and the other person. “Seriously?”

“No,” Jenkins said, answering the first question. “Not really.”

“I mean, not ideal, I guess, but we’ve got probably a while before any of this gets going properly anyway, I guess. Can you do that again?”

“What?” they asked.

“Pitch,” they said, and produced another blaseball from a hoodie pocket, tossed it at them with surprising force. They caught it sort of on instinct, and then looked at it, a little taken aback.

“Nice. C’mon, let’s see what ya got,” the stranger said, and Jenkins shook their head a bit. Again, a Jenkins from a previous life probably would have been running for their life by now, but New Jenkins was Adventurous and a Thrill Seeker and all that, and hell if this wasn’t an interesting story. So they lined themselves up again, felt the satisfying weight of the ball in their hand for just a moment. Just like before, they thought to themselves, and they wound up again and threw.

“See! Look at that!” they said, pointing at where Jenkins’ pitch had made contact with the backboard. The other one sort of sighed at them.

“You can’t just ask random strangers to be on our blaseball team. What if they’re an axe murderer?”

“I’m not, if it helps,” Jenkins said, pleasantly.

“Yeah, Trev! They’re not an axe murderer!” they said. “And they’re a good pitcher, which is kinda the only thing that matters here.”

“That’s what an axe murderer would say,” the other one – Trev? – grumbled.

“Wait, are you guys starting a blaseball team?” Jenkins asked, looking back and forth between them.

“Yeah! We bought the stadium and everything. The grand return of the Canada Moist Talkers.”

“Oh, hey, I think I’ve heard of them!” Jenkins said.

“Anyway! I’m Kennedy. I use they/them. We, uh. Hm. Trev?” they said, and then looked back up to the platform. “C’mon, look, you know it’s just like blaseball to have a star pitcher just kind of… show up out of nowhere.”

The person standing there sighed heavily.

“Trevino, he/him. Yeah. Fine.” He said, and finally started coming down the steps too.

“I know this is really abrupt and kind of early, but, uh, any chance you want to try out for the team?”

\---

Nearly a year later, a lot of elbow grease, many late nights, and what had to be a thousand phone calls with a thousand contractors, and the newly rechristened Gleek Arena was nearly unrecognizable.

Jenkins stood with Trevino, who was holding a sleeping Velasquez, just beside the little podium where Kennedy was about to address the crowd gathered for their big opening. There were so many of them – they spilled out towards the street; far beyond the area they’d thought to provide. After all the setbacks, it had almost felt sometimes like this day would never come, but here they were.

Jenkins, being the only one in the little group who had any business experience, had stepped in to help out with a lot of the financial stuff. It had been tough going, a lot of learning on the job, but they found themselves really taking to it, and besides, they really liked working with Trev and Kennedy. They’d all gotten close after all those late nights, and after the year was up, it had felt like they’d known each other their entire life. And it wasn’t just them – the whole team was great. Most of the lineup and rotation had been finalized, although there were a few gaps to be filled closer to the start of the season. Jenkins had gotten to know all of them a bit, and could honestly say that they were more excited for the first day of their season together than they had been for pretty much anything in their whole life.

Kennedy, at the podium, picked up a big set of stylized brass scissors, displaying them to the crowd, then held them up to the shiny red ribbon hanging over the doorways.

Jenkins looked to Kennedy, and then to Trevino, and then to their teammates, standing just off to the side watching the ribbon-cutting, and in that moment, there was nowhere at all in the whole world that they would rather have been.


End file.
